She was History
She was history; old as stone.
Smoothed by changing tides,
Jewelled seaweed and wild foam.
Smashed against the ragged shore. Worn,
Battered, etched with lines and fissures; she
Drifted and flowed. She was history. The
Smoke from a damp bonfire; smudged and
Curling, into a weathered gloom.
Stratus, cirrocumulus, doused in darkness;
Unfettered amongst a rushing wind. She
Was history. A trickling brook. Red
Wellingtons wading. Moss slithered bank.
Nettles, bin bags and sofas; over stuffed
Carcasses floundering in the mud. Minows
Darting away from grubby hands. She was
History. Red tender glow. The fragile scent
Of tickseed, dahlia and marigold mingling
With burnt meat and charcoal. The nine pm
Light, muggy sweat between white sheets.
Endless. She was history.